Sorrow's Change
by misscam
Summary: If you know the sorrow of a friend, claim it as your own.' A moment of sharing between Catherine and Warrick begins a path of changes. [CWR] WIP


Sorrow's Change  
by Camilla Sandman

Disclaimer: Warrick and Catherine and the other CSI characters are the property of CBS. I'm just a borrower.

Author's Note: Set immediately after "A Little Murder" with Catherine's attack and goes AU from there. Written on request for Rose. Quote is from Håvamål, the ancient words of wisdom believed by the Vikings to be from Odin himself. (And is very certainly in the public domain.) There will be several parts to this story.

II

_If you know the sorrow of a friend, claim it as your own._

-Håvamål

II

_Afterwards, she lies in the dawn and feels the sun crawl across her skin and the shards of her self. Not quite broken, not yet mended, as if she's waiting to be glued back together. What scares her is that she doesn't quite remember the feeling of being whole. Was even she whole before this or has fear merely eaten the recollection? _

_She could have died. It could have been the sharp light of a coroner that crawled across her skin and the bed could have been earth's silent cradle, slowly grounding her to dust._

_She doesn't want to die and still her work is death and the puzzles of human cruelty. Always puzzles, always pieces. Perhaps there is no whole, only the illusion of it between changes._

_In this moment, in the starlight come to fade all other stars, she can feel the pieces move again and change._

II

There was a silence in the fading of the night and the awakening of dawn that seemed to embrace the world, giving cold comfort before the sun beckoned day and all the griefs it carried. A silence even in the roar of Las Vegas and Catherine could feel it settle inside her, quieting her fears and worries and unease. Quieting them, but not defeating. Nothing had seemed to.

And thus she stood on a cold set of stairs, feeling idiotic, feeling imposing, half-forgetting why she had knocked on this door in the first place.

"Catherine?"

The warmth in Warrick's voice was enough to make her remember and she smiled up at his confused face. He was dressed in only sweatpants and t-shirt, she noted, and tried to feel guilty for probably waking him.

"Were you asleep?"

"Yes, but with no dreams worth missing," he replied, taking her in. "Are you here for business or pleasure?"

"No business. I don't know about pleasure," she said lightly, and he gave a slow nod, as if understanding.

"That sounds like something to drink on," he said casually, pushing the door wider open for her. She could feel the heat of him as she eased herself past and inside and she wondered if there had ever been a time his presence hadn't sparked that small treacherous flame across her skin. If so, she could no longer remember it.

"White wine all right?" he asked conversationally, the light slamming into the room as he flicked the switch.

"Sure," she replied, sinking down on the couch gratefully. "You've changed things a bit."

"Girlfriend," he explained, vanishing out of sight and reappearing a moment later with two glasses and a bottle. "She left, the living room stayed."

"Only thing Eddie left me with was a morgage."

"And Lindsey," he said gently, his hand touching hers as she took the offered glass.

"And Lindsey," she agreed, meeting his eyes. "She's sleeping over at mum's. Mum insisted, after I told her about the attack."

The wine was cool as she sipped it, but his gaze was warm on her, anchoring her. He was waiting, she realised, trusting she'd raise the issue of why she was here soon enough. Or perhaps he already understood and waited only for confirmation.

"I remembered Holly," she said evenly, fighting the urge to keep silent and remain in the illusion of strength. "I'd almost forgotten her, until I nearly echoed her. I was afraid I would share her fate, Warrick. I think I still am."

"So was I," he admitted, pain and sorrow in his voice marking his words true. "But you're still here."

"Then why do I feel so cold?" she whispered, watching her fingers clutch the glass. She was't sure which seemed the more brittle.

"Shock, delayed angst reaction, post traumatic stress disorder. Take your pick," he replied. "You don't need me to tell you that."

"No."

"So why are you here?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

She could see him weigh her words, trying to figure out how to take them and she felt a sudden urge to help him overwhelm her. Without even putting down the glass, she slid over and straddled him, feeling his body tense as she did. But he didn't try to hinder her, or help her for that matter, merely watched as she pressed her palms against his chest, feeling his heartbeats reverberate along her skin.

"For this," she said and kissed him, tasting the wine still on his lips. For a moment longer, he still did nothing; then she felt his hands at her back, pressing her closer. A sound much like a moan echoed between them, she wasn't quite sure who of them had made it.

His unshaven skin scratched against hers as he kissed her and her first thought was how unlike Eddie it felt. But then, she had always know the two were a species apart. Perhaps it was why she had waited as long as she had, feeling Eddie more her type than Warrick.

Perhaps that was why this felt strangely right even so.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "You can't just leave in the morning and never see me again."

"No," she replied honestly, seeing a look of hurt flicker across his face. "But I was sure with Frank, with Jack, with Eddie and all those ended badly. I wouldn't do this if I was sure about it."

"Impressive logic," he muttered, a hint of amusement in his voice. She closed her eyes as his lips moved to her neck, feeling as if wisps of flames were marking her, covering the invisible scars of death's claws. Alive. Alive and breathing and she wasn't sure if it was her breath or his that sounded like a thunderstorm in her head, but it killed everything else.

She lifted her arms to allow him to yank her top off, skin replacing cloth before she had a chance to feel cold. His fingers traced patterns across her breasts and his eyes were dark when he lifted his gaze to meet hers again.

"You have a scar here," he muttered, tracing the white mark with a finger.

"Fell clumsily against a fence when I was ten," she replied, watching his dark skin against her pale, a beauty in contrasts. "Don't tell anyone?"

"Not even under torture," he said solemnly, pressing a kiss against it, as if sealing a promise. Lacing her hand in hers, he lifted her up and she leaned into him as she felt the floor under her feet. It became a strange dance as they crossed the floor; his step, her step, retraction, attraction, two, one. She wasn't sure how long it took until she felt darkness on her skin again and realised they'd made it to his bedroom, still bathed in the absence of light.

She tugged as his shirt as he kissed her again, deeply and greedily, his hands tracing her body, making her groan with impatience. Her mind had already categorised the smell and taste of him, now it wanted to explore the feel of him, preferably in detail.

"Clothes off," she ordered, trying to keep her voice stern and failing as he smiled at her, a slow, lazy smile she wondered how she'd ever been able to resist.

"As you desire," he said, smile in his voice too. Stepping slightly away, he pulled his t-shirt off slowly, the rest of the clothes following in the same leisurely pace. She let her gaze caress every inch of him, knowing her hands and mouth would soon follow.

'Making a map of Warrick,' she thought, and savoured the thought and the sight of her hand on his shoulder as she stepped into his embrace.

Dark and light. Catherine and Warrick. Night and day, meeting in the pre-dawn.

She let herself fall with him onto the bed, his touches growing impatient and focused. The bed felt soft under her as he was hard over her, thunder becoming lightning in her head, filling her as a white flame that was pleasure and pleasure's pain and a shattering death before she came together again, her palm still on his chest.

Sunlight was touching the windows, she noticed some time later, his head resting against her left breast as they lay in bed. One hand was still laced in hers, and she wondered if he too had needed assurance that she was still there, still safe. Still Catherine.

She wasn't sure she could give it to herself.

His chest rose and fell as he breathed and she saw sleep claim him, his lashes dark even against his skin. But she stayed awake a while still and watched the sunlight begin to slowly change the world with its touch, wondering what the touch would bring for her.

There was no whole, only the rest inbetween the changes.


End file.
